


Mayview PI: (Paranatural Investigator)

by Blitzdrake



Category: Paranatural (Webcomic), paranormal Investigator
Genre: Gen, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Strong Language, paranormal investigator AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-13 05:47:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3370073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blitzdrake/pseuds/Blitzdrake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isaac, full-time ghost hunting, werewolf-chasing, vampire-staking paranatural investigator, confronts the most fearsome foe imaginable, an angry medium.  [Response to a request for Imaax paranatural Investigator AU.]</p><p>Isabel kicks and Ed quips, while Isaac and Max flip(out).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Shape of Things to Come

Isaac glared up at the bald, giant bouncer with a surprising amount of anger and menace, considering the vast difference in their sizes.  For his part the man ignored the hate radiating off the slender redhead, horribly under-dressed for the club, in jeans, a mostly-clean shirt, and jacket.  The jolly, fuckin-green giant stared dumbly at Isaac’s ID, miniscule in his mammoth palms, as if it was a fuckin’ treatise on quantum mechanics.  Why the asshole was being so deliberately slow and rude, Isaac wasn’t sure; he’d been completely polite to the Neanderthal.  Well, mostly polite.  Maybe he could have been a little friendlier when the guy first asked for him to pay cover and show ID, but the behemoth had just let three girls that were closer to 15 than 21 in without asking for credentials, let alone a cover charge.  And then he wanted $15 from Isaac? 

Isaac had pointed this fact out, and the fact that he wasn’t there to stay, just needed to look around inside for some friends.  The Paleolithic-evolutionary-backslide had just repeated the insultingly high cover fee and demand for ID.  At which point Isaac felt he was completely justified in calling out the guy for the breast-chasing, jail-bait hunting, knuckle-dragging ass-hole he was.  Of course he probably could have stopped there and maybe not brought up the guy’s mother, but seriously, $15 to walk into a shithole, fight a crowd that wouldn’t be able to distinguish between dancing and seizures while they gyrated to the synthesized clamor that passed for music in this kind of place, and then overpay for a fuckin Smirnoff since they didn’t have anything worth drinking on tap?  If it wasn’t for work, Isaac wouldn’t have ever been caught in this part of town.  Isaac’s idea of a good bar was a no-cover dive, where the smoke was thick enough you couldn’t tell you had company, let alone be bothered by it, where the bartender over-poured and under-charged, and the most complex drink on the menu was a whiskey, neat.  

After another round of awkward silence, where the bouncer refused to rise to the bait and continued to ignore Isaac--God that pissed him off--Isaac tried again, as polite a smile as he could manage through the grimace. “Look, I know math and literacy aren’t high on the job requirements for your position, but it can’t be this hard to figure out how old I am.  Look for the Date of Birth on the ID, then, and this is crucial, subtract the last bit from the current year.  The number you’ll be looking for is 24.”  The bald bouncer stared at him bluntly for a moment before finally sighing in irritation and taking one of the ultraviolet ID verifiers and flashing it across the ID … slowly … several times.  Finally he shoved it back into Isaac’s hands with enough force to push Isaac back a step before motioning him in.  “Stupid asshole,” Isaac muttered under his breath, before storming past the man.  For a moment, just a moment, he thought about turning around and cursing the man, not the  "'ey ya fuckin’ asshole” cursing, but an-honest-to-god old-fashioned, Babylonian curse, complete with bleeding shits and boils … but he was here on business, and, besides, it was better to save what mojo he had for the real monsters.

Inside the bar, he scanned he room, trying to make shit out under the epilepsy-inducing, blindingly bright and erratic flashing lights.  Finally he spotted his client and partner, by virtue of seeing the only two people in the room who belonged in the joint less than he did.  His client, dressed in a tracksuit, a _God damned tracksuit and they gave me a problem?_ She was leaning against the bar, her arms crossed and a stony impression carved into her face.  He could tell just by looking that she was a non-believer, the worst kind of client when the spooky shit got involved and the biggest headache when it came time to collecting a fee.

 _Why do I keep taking jobs for people that piss me off?  Oh, right … I’m broke as hell._ Beside her, stood Isaac’s friend, or as close as people like him could get to having friends.  When you hunted and dealt with the kinds of things that Isaac dealt with, friends were too often a liability.  Same thing for lovers … one reason Isaac had been avoiding temptation of that sort lately.  There was another reason, but … _best not to dwell on that. I’m pissed off enough tonight_.  Ed at least knew the dangers and, while not suited for handling the big stuff, knew how to keep himself safe.  He was a small-time psychic, a low-level diviner with a talent for finding things, or, sometimes, knowing what it’d take to find something, and sniffing out danger as an added bonus.  Surprisingly it paid well, though you wouldn’t notice it from how he dressed; khakis, a fedora, and a Hawaiian floral button up shirt ought to be a sin on anyone under 60.  It was so off-putting it had created a space around him at the bar, the fancy clientele giving him a surprising amount of clearance lest they contract whatever fashion virus he was carrying. 

 _If I could stand to wear it, it’d be worth it for that space; sometimes Ed’s smarter than he looks,_ Isaac thought as he glared at a pair of disgustingly drunk girls attempting the tipsy version of a sashay as they smiled and tottered toward him.  Unlike the bouncer, they at least responded properly, quickly changing direction.  As did the drunken leering guy, and the other three people that were too dumb, drunk, or horny to ignore the clear _leave me the fuck alone_ bearing in his stride as he made as straight a bee-line as he could manage across the dance floor to Ed and the girl.  _What was her name?  Oh yeah, Isabel._

“Isaac, what took you so long, buddy?”  Ed broke off a stream of one-sided banter he’d been barraging the client with to reach out and grab Isaac’s shoulder, pulling him the last bit of the way through the crowd and to the relative safety of his fashion-quarantine zone at the bar.

“A little trouble with the upstanding gentleman checking IDs.” Isaac tried to school pleasantness back into his manner.  It didn’t work to well.

“Oh, God, man,” Ed grinned.  “You insulted the bouncer, didn’t you?  Have you ever considered diplomacy?”

“I was very diplomatic,” Isaac replied, “I didn’t say a damn thing about his breath, or the fact that his face could probably scare off a lower-level demon.” 

Ed rolled his eyes before grinning and replying, “I’d ask what has you in a bad mood, but I have a feeling I know the answer,” Ed grinned waving at the bar around them, “and before you ask again, yes, I’m sure this is the best way to track down what our client needs.”

“It better not be the best way, Ed, it better be the only goddamned way.  If there is any other way and you dragged me here to this hell ho-”

The woman, who’d only been getting more impatient as the two guys talked, cut into the conversation at that point. “Why are we here exactly again?  I’m supposed to be finding some stuff that went missing from my Gramps’s shop and instead I’m standing in Club ear-bleed.  I go to this guy,” Isabel pointed at Ed, “because some friends swear he can find stuff.  Since the cops haven’t been able to turn up a damn thing, I agreed to try.  But all he’s done so far was walk through my store with a sketch book and a paintbrush, make a few funny pictures, then tell me I need to get my ass here and meet you.

“Why,” Isabel stood tall, one gesture encompassing the entire club, “did we have to come here to find my Gramps’s stuff?  No one at this place gives a damn about antiques.”

“Yes Ed,” Isaac agreed moodily, “Why are we here, again? I missed that part as well.”

Ed’s grin dropped a bit, and he pulled his ever present sketch book out of his back pocket, flipping it to the most recent page, where a smudge of ink was smeared like one of those inkblot tests a therapist over-charged you to stare at before telling you your daddy didn’t spend enough time hugging you and your mom probably didn’t love you.  _Like I need to pay money to figure out that._

Isaac looked at it for a moment, before staring back at Ed again his face unamused.  “You know that kind of divination’s your bag, not mine, Ed.  What’s it supposed to mean.”

“It means,” he continued, “that whoever took her stuff didn’t lift it, at least not with their own hands.  Whatever took it was a ghost, a corporeal one.  And since it didn’t just smash the stuff but took it, I’m guessing it wasn’t just haunting her.  Someone sent it.  And you know what that means.”

 _Ah fuck_ , Isaac thought before groaning, “God damn it.  Necromancers?  I fuckin’ hate Necromancers.”

“Necromancers.” Isabel stared at the two of them, irritation and disbelief battling for control of her expression. “Are you serious?  I hire you to track down some jerks who somehow snuck into my store, and your answer is ghosts?  And a necromancer?  You expect me to believe some old dude somewhere is shaking a bloody chicken head and chanting, and that made my stuff at the shop disappear?”

“First of all,” Isaac cut her off, “The shaking a bloody chicken line of work is more for voodoo than necromancy.  It’s an honest mistake,” he continued with a smirk at the look of confusion on her face, “they both do a lot of workin’ with the dead.  The difference is, a voodoo priest, if he wants something done in the corporal world is more likely to stupefy someone into a zombie, or just hex you into getting it yourself by letting a spirit play with your brain.  But a Necromancer, they don’t mix  well the living, or even the recently deceased.  They prefer the spiritually dead, souls that have been gone long enough there’s nothing left but fragments and incorporeal spirits.  Then the Necromancer goes, traps them and torments them until they give in to his will.  After that … well you got that part sorta right,” he grinned wider, but it was an angry grin promising a world of hurt.  “It usually involves blood.  But not animal, and not just a little bit.  Takes human sacrifice to give a human spirit the kind of power to interact with our world as something more than a low level haunt.  And to move stuff, that’s a poltergeist, that takes a life, at least to wake one up and give it the power to play around in our world.  Nothing crosses the Veil unless something else crosses in the other direction.  Balance and all that.  So the ten-thousand-dollar question isn’t what spook caused your grampa’s stuff to disappear, but what your dearly-departed Gramps had that was worth killin’ someone and then making deals with a very angry and now very beefed up spirit.”

Isabel just stared, mouth agape, at Isaac before turning to Ed just to make sure his expression was as serious Isaac’s.  She reached out beside her for an untouched drink she must have ordered when she first walked in, and downed it one gulp before slamming it down and standing straighter.  “I don’t…. I can’t believe this shit.  Is this come kind of con?  Tell me my missing shit is valuable and pretend some spooky phantom stole it to jack up your price?” 

“This isn’t a con,” Isaac replied, trying for calm but irritation won over control of his voice.  _Fuck, I hate working with normal people; they never get shit,_ “and this isn’t a negotiation for a fee.  Whatever Ed fuckin’ told you the price was stays the same.  I swear.  I’d probably do this one for free if I had to.  Necromancers are like junkies.  Once they get their hands on some real power, and graduate from talkin’ to ghosts to full on commanding enslaved spirits, well, they don’t really make a rehab program for people who go around tormenting souls.  It usually ends up in more killing, which means more angry spirits, which is fine with them since that just means more power.  And I don’t go for sacrifice and killing on my turf.  That kind of shit demands justice, the Old Testament kind, and I mean to see it gets carried out.” _Which might be why I’m broke as hell_ , Isaac considered, but he suppressed the thought.  _No one ever made a fortune playing hero._   

Isabel was clearly unconvinced, but Isaac at least managed to convey that he was serious, that or the offer to keep the fee the same was enough for her to decide to keep humoring them.  Finally she sighed. “Fine.  I’ll play along since I already paid for this show.  But I can’t really help. With what was taken, I don’t really know.”

“You don’t know what was stolen from your own damn shop,” Isaac growled.

“I told you it was my Grampa’s shop.  I just inherited the damn thing a few weeks back.  I’d just done a rough, rough mind-you, inventory a few nights back.  Then I go upstairs to my place above the shop and fall asleep.  Next thing I know I wake up freezing; heater must have been on the brink.” Isaac shared a meaningful glance with Ed, but Isabel missed it as she mimed warming herself with her hands, as if just the memory left her feeling cold again.  “Anyway I try to warm up, and I hear a crash from downstairs.  I run downstairs to catch whoever is breaking in.”

“You run downstairs.  At night, into the middle of a break-in without calling the cops.” It was Isaac’s turn to stare at her in disbelief.

“Whatever,” Isabel replied with a dismissing wave of her hand, “I can handle a couple of thugs.  I’ve been training in martial arts since I was a kid.”

“Sure you can, I can hold my own in a fight too, that doesn’t mean I’m going to charge in blindly to a room probably full of murderous, possibly armed thugs.” Ed coughed loudly, and Isaac had the decency to blush.  “Okay, I’m not going to charge blindly into said room of thugs without being prepared.  Or do you know how to punch bullets out of the air?” Isaac continued. 

Isabel glared at him, and for a second Isaac thought she might throw a punch right there.  The menace was certainly scary enough that he might hold off on attacking her in a dark room, and Isaac admitted based on violent expressions alone she might actually be half as capable as she thought she was.  Raising his hands in mock surrender, he motioned her to continue.

“Anyway,” Isabel muttered, “the door to the shop was still locked, and none of the windows were broken, nor was any of the stuff touched, except one whole shelf was empty, and everything around the shelf was covered in frost, and when I stood there it felt like I wasn’t alone, but there was no one in the shop.  And no sign of how they got in and out with my grampa’s stuff.”  She looked at them as if expecting them to think she was crazy, then remembered they were the ones spouting the crazy story.

“That sounds like a poltergeist at least,” Isaac muttered as Ed grinned at the clear agreement with his divination.  Noticing Isabel’s confused look again, Isaac finished, “Ghosts and the spirit types of undead tend to be your frosty, low temperature variety of evil.  Most of the demon type critters tend towards heat, all that smoke and brimstone.”

“Demons…. Are you … no, never mind, I’m sure you’re deadly serious.” Isabel rolled her eyes, before continuing, “Anyway, I can’t tell you for sure what all the stuff was on that shelf … though ….” she paused, thoughtful a moment. “I guess I do remember a book among the things.”

“A book?  Shit,” Ed replied before Isaac could.  “It’s never good when someone with a little hocus pocus goes chasing after a book.  What was on the cover?”

“Um, I’m not sure?  It was old, a lot of cracks, The image was kind of faded. I can’t remember-”

“Give me your hand,” Ed said, reaching into his pocket for a paintbrush.

“I’m not a very good artist,” she replied untrustingly as she extended her hand to tentatively touch it, “and I just told you I don’t remember anyway.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Ed replied absently as he pushed the brush into her hand and guided her hand to hover over the sketchbook.  “Just close your eyes and try to think about the book.”

Isabel followed his request, her expression still disbelieving.  Ed quickly placed his hand over hers, guiding her hand in a few strokes before whispering under his breath.  Somehow even over the music she heard some of what he was saying, because her face relaxed a second, and when Ed removed his own hand hers kept moving.  About a minute later her hand stopped and Ed gently took the paintbrush from her hand.  She opened her eyes and stared at the sketch she’d drawn in surprise, then at his brush.  “Wait…. how did I…. There isn’t even any paint on that brush.”

“Let’s not worry about Ed’s little parlor tricks and focus on what you drew,” Isaac said, shoving his way into their huddle to see the picture himself. 

“I don’t recognize it, Isaac, do you?” Ed said, staring at a picture of a spider-shaped figure inscribed within a diamond, a circle at each corner, and a line between each circle and a run of indecipherable script around the outside of the circle.

“Looks Eastern,” he replied staring at it himself, “not my area of expertise, but if I had to guess I’d say some of that looks like Sanskrit, or related to it.  And if a Necromancer’s involved, it wouldn’t be going out on a limb to say it’s something from the eight-fold path.”

“Eight-fold path?” Ed’s face was similar to Isabel’s this time, a picture of confusion.

A cult of sorts, they were big back when the Egyptians were still figuring out the whole speaking-to-the-dead thing. Helped inspire the whole Osiris myth, actually.  They were obsessed with worshiping a spider goddess.  Said her eight legs, each represented a different way to cross the Veil between worlds.  The first one, obviously, was dying.  Another was sacrifice.  Four of them were paths to the other world, and the other four were paths back.  And the goddess could apparently move herself and her followers along those paths at will.  Which I guess is a fancy way of saying ‘immortality’ of sorts.”

“Doesn’t sound like the sort of thing I’d want a Necromancer toying around with,” Ed said grimly.

“Doesn’t sound like something I should even be listening to,” Isabel sighed.

“Like I said, no extra charge,” Isaac grumbled, wincing even as he said it before sighing.  “Just humor us for a bit.  Like you said, the police aren’t helping you. At least we are willing to try.”

“If you can even call this helping,” Isabel replied, “you still haven’t even explained why we are here.  I’m not saying I believe you on the whole Necromancer thing, but I still don’t think one would be ... here.”

“Well, about that,” Ed began, looking nervously at Isaac between explanations to Isabel, looking clearly uncomfortable. “We are here to find someone else of Isaac’s and my acquaintance….”

Isaac’s face hardened as he shot Ed a look of barely restrained fury, comprehension dawning.  He finished explaining to Isabel in icy tones.  “To deal with a mage who uses ghosts to do his nasty work, you got to find the necromancer first, and since he’s not likely to go doing anything himself when he has invisible and untraceable servants to do his bidding, you need to find a way to track his servants.  And that means you need another ghost.”  Isaac finished.   “Which must be why Ed feels we need to be here.  And since he’s right.” Ed grinned and Isaac glared at Ed till the grin turned into a gulp.  “Since Ed is right, _this time,_ we must be here to do just that.”

“We came here to find a ghost,” she looked around her at the club. 

Isaac sighed heavily before turning to look more closely at the clientele of the room, his eyes eager, even as his face was frowning.  He inspected the shadowed tables of the upper floor.  “No,” and for a moment his voice dropped some of the bitterness for a hint of regret and longing, “we are looking for a medium.  A strong medium for a job like this.  Probably the strongest one in the whole damned city.  Definitely the only one we can be sure could find this guy.”

“A medium. Aren’t they usually in, like, a palm-reading shop with a crystal ball and a small round table.  Like the whole séance thing?”

“Sure, we could go to one of those,” Isaac said, still scanning distractedly. “But I thought you just finished complaining about cons and scams.  A medium.  A real medium,” Isaac continued, his eyes finally resting on a particular table.  His expression softened before, with an effort, he managed to put angry iron back into his voice and face.  He continued in a half-growl, “A real medium just needs to let his walls down.  Just has to let his spiritual shields drop for a second and he’s half in our world, half in the next.  No conjuration, no holding dead relatives’ stuff and muttering some fake mummery.  Spirits, those that haven’t passed on, are really Chatty Cathies.  And when they find someone that can actually listen.  Can actually see them.  As long as that someone isn’t blocking them out with a shield, they can latch on and never shut up.  A medium can’t block it out all the time. They have to rest, relax, and unwind.  I’ve been told it’s not the most fun for them, having spirits and ghosts popping up anytime they let their guard down, wanting to talk about the living, or just refusing to believe they are dead or trying to get unfinished business taken care of.  And that’s the nice ones.  The mean ones … the grudges … they hate the living, but the living can’t see them or hear them, so they can’t do anything with all that anger.  But a medium, a really powerful one, it’s a goddamned beacon drawing ghosts like moths to a flame.  And if he isn’t careful about how and when he lets his guard down, they all come rushing in to torment him.”

Ed cut in then with a softer, more understanding expression. “Faced with that, if you had to deal with that day-in and day-out, you might think a place like this,” Isaac scowled at Ed, “filled with bright flashing lights, happy-drunk feel-good vibes, and lots of people is paradise.  Most ghosts prefer dark places and isolation.  And then there’s the fact that this place is so new.  There’s no history of death or dark skeletons in the closet in this building.  Not even the park it was built on.  No reason for a spirit to be here.  And a steady supply of alcohol to numb yourself to the spirit world if you need to….  It’s the perfect place if you need to be safe and relax.”

“I get why the place is good,” Isaac continued angrily. “But there are plenty of other secure places.  I’ve warded dozens of places personally against spirits that are just as good, and a lot fuckin’ quieter.  I could have protected any place he chose.  Hell, if he still wore the charm I made him, he could relax all he fuckin’ wanted to.”

“Well the charm has disadvantages…. It could be tracked, unless you kept it locked away,” Ed looked embarrassed at the angry expression on Isaac’s face, “and this place does have one other advantage….” Ed continued, trailing off awkwardly.

“Yeah,” Isaac said with a growl, “I wouldn’t be caught dead here.  Usually,” he amended.  “I suppose if you’ve known he was here, you’ve known where else he’s been this whole time?  Where he vanished off to?” Isaac struggled to hold onto his temper.

“I made a promise,” Ed offered as his only answer, meeting Isaac’s gaze with a steadfast but nervous expression. 

“I’m not gonna bite your head off,” Isaac growled after a long pause where he looked as if that was something he’d been considering.

“I realize this isn’t exactly a new problem for me so far when it comes to you two talking, but I feel like I’m really missing something here,” Isabel cut in.

“Join the club,” Isaac said with irritation.  He turned back to the table he’d been staring at earlier, before straightening his shoulders and heading to the closest stairway.

“Fuck,” Ed said, “Isaac … maybe I should go up first … and … Isaac!”  Ed groaned.

“Um, so, explanation?” Isabel replied.

“Trust me, most of it’ll make perfect sense in a minute. Right now I got to get up there and make sure they don’t kill each other,” Ed groaned.

Isaac barely noticed the figures struggling to catch up to him.  He certainly didn’t notice the people he shoved past on his way up the stairs.  His eyes were practically sparking with anger as he climbed the stairs.  _Fucking shit, he was still in town.  Still.  In.  Town.  I knew he’d fuckin’ run away._ There was a pool of hurt and anger churning Isaac’s gut at the thought, _All those nights scrying, fucking pulling every favor I could with every low-level spirit willing to bargain.  Before I finally give up and realized, if a medium doesn’t want to be found, no ghost is gonna rat on him.  All I could get was that he wasn’t dead.  I’m finally coming to terms with it.  I get the fact that he didn’t want to be with me anymore.  That he didn’t want to deal with this city, the whole supernatural world in general, or me.  Come to terms that he’d run off and I’d never have a chance to get to say my piece and find out why.  And.  He.  Was. Still.  In.  Town._

Isaac reached the top of the stairs without even remembering the climb, regaining his bearing as he searched out the table again.  Behind him, Ed was trapped in the middle of the dance floor, struggling to fit past the crowd.  He peeked desperately around their shoulders trying to find a path while looking at the stiff back of Isaac on the upper level above, arms tightly squeezed against his side and hands clenching at empty air, before he vanished, heading towards a table out of view.  _Fuck…._ Ed groaned in his head, _Isaac, don’t say anything stupid, you idiot._

Isaac approached the only table on the entire floor that had a single person at it, currently facing away from the club and staring down into a half-full glass on the table in front of him.  From behind, Isaac couldn’t make out anything more than a hooded dark sweatshirt and the back of a baseball cap.  Isaac didn’t need anymore; a month of worry and anger, couldn’t conquer two years of friendship and six months of something more.  Like a lodestone, he was drawn and the recognition was instantaneous.  He could pull up a memory of the guy at the table from head to toe and recreate it in picture-perfect detail.  From the way the head angled, the slump in the shoulders, he could even draw the medium’s current expression underneath the shaded cap.  He would be frowning into his drink, dark eyes distant, staring at nothing and everything at once.  Staring right through the drink, through the table, through the floor.  Those eyes could pierce anything, flesh, bone, spirit, right to your core, see your soul, and drink it up.  And his lips would be locked in that little frown, the edges turned ever so slightly down, that he always had when he was thinking.  A frown that begged to be nibbled or teased or tickled away. 

Isaac stiffened, literally, every part of him.  Yes that part too.  _Christ.  Even when I’m angry he…. Goddamn it._   Isaac took a few steps, the momentum carrying him to stand just a few feet behind the table as he ransacked his head for the right thing to say.

The surprise was passed when he saw a familiar quiver in the back of the medium, as the guy suddenly straightened, his shoulders suddenly bracing as if for a blow.  _He knows I’m here,_ Isaac realized.  Somehow, just as Isaac could tell from a glance at the back what expression was on his face, the medium, Max, could tell Isaac was behind him.  Some pattern to his step, the sound of his breathing, hell, maybe even his smell, Isaac wasn’t sure how, but Max knew.  And Max just kept staring at the drink and waiting.

 _Fuck it_.  Isaac walked up the table, slamming his hands down onto it loudly enough for the people at the nearby tables to jump in surprise.  Max didn’t flinch.  He didn’t even look up.

Isaac struggled to calm his anger and he was proud that his voice was for the most part calm.  At least calm compared to a hurricane.  Calm compared to a tempest.  Hell compared to a tornado he was in a fucking Zen trance. 

Isaac ran through a dozen different things to say, ranging the _vast_ spectrum from accusation to condemnation; what came out however was, “So … how the fuck have you been?  Love the new hangout.  Something in the décor seems to scream ‘all-assholes-welcome.’”

Max’s hands were under the table, but Isaac knew that Max was absently clenching and unclenching them.  Just like he could tell, from the stiffening shoulders, that behind the baseball cap that obscured his face Max’s face was warming into a scowl.

 _Pissing him off, at least I can still do that_.  In a way it was almost a relief.  A weak straw to rest his hopes on, but it was a sort of validation.  If you can piss someone off, if you can lash out at them, and it stings, then there’s something there to hurt, there’s some connection to give those words power, some ghost of a memory of that person still in your heart.  _At least that’s how it’s working for me right now, because I still think about you … constantly, and I’ve got a huge mother-fuckin’ hurt going on._

Seeing as Max wasn’t answering, Isaac continued for him, “Oh me?  Not too bad either.  Life’s great.  Havin’ a great fuckin’ time.  Out and about.  Just bumped into an old friend and his client for some drinks at this awesome place.” Isaac glared at the room, anything to take his eyes off Max for second and give his pulse a chance to slow down, “I can see the appeal, bet you love it here.  So much nicer than the alternative.  Like … my place.  You know, the one I shielded for you.  Wards are still there by the way.  Couldn’t tear them down. Not when I was afraid you might need them some day. Even if you apparently didn’t need me.”

Max’s hands were on the table, and for a second, one hand clenched into a fist, then at the last minute Max grabbed his drink with it, draining it in a gulp before slamming it on the table and looking up to glare at Isaac.

Familiar dark eyes swam into Isaac’s vision and for just a second the anger was secondary as Isaac drank in a sight part of him had worried he’d never see again, even while the rest of him worked hard to convince itself that he hoped he wouldn’t have to ever see it again.  Then Isaac noticed the changes.  There were bags under Max’s eyes, so dark they might have been bruises.  And a redness in his eyes that was visible even in the poor lighting of the club.  His cheeks were pale, deathly pale, and there was a gauntness to his face.  _Fuck, he looks bad._

Without even meaning to, a note of concern sipped into Isaac’s voice. “Fuck, what happened to you, Max?”

Max winced, drawing back when Isaac extended a hand towards his face.  The flinch hurt.  Isaac drew his hand back, crossing his arms to keep them away.  He retreated back into the anger, it was warmer. Safer.

“I guess you haven’t been getting any sleep again?  Where’s the charm I made? It was supposed help with that.”

“I threw it away.” Max’s voice was sandpapery, tired, exhausted.  There was anger in it.  But it was old anger, worn-out anger.  The kind of anger of someone who’s given up.  The kind of anger that hurt to hear, that said it might be too late.  Isaac was ready to accept that yesterday.  Maybe even ten minutes ago.  But _Max was still here.  Still.  In.  Town.  That meant he didn’t leave.  Maybe he couldn’t leave.  Maybe…. fuck you, O’Connor.  Stop doing this to yourself._

 “You threw it away?  Max,” Isaac grumbled, trying to keep his focus on irritation and not concern for Max’s health or desperation, “Do you have any idea how much it cost to make that?  How much time?  You think getting solid silver--solid silver, with no impurities--to get enough to make a bracelet is cheap?  And to carve those runes into it?  Ancient Sumerian isn’t exactly something you can hire the Kay Jewelers people to engrave on something.  Not if you want it done right.”

“I … I couldn’t stand it anymore,” Max said.  “It hurt too much to wear it.”

“It’s silver, it can’t hurt you…. Wait … Max, did something possess you?  A curse?”  Isaac was a little sick at how hopeful that thought made him.  Possession, curses, something like that would mean it wasn’t his fault.  Wasn’t Max’s fault either.  He was surprised at how quickly he’d throw away a month of anger and worry if it meant they could go back.  _Really sticking to your guns, Isaac.  Way to go._

Max snorted, for a second his face alive, the old humor in it.  Isaac felt his heart pull as taut as a harp string with hope.  “Moron.” There was affection in Max’s voice.  Isaac had almost forgotten how good it felt to be on the receiving end of that.  “Not hurt like that.  Just reminded me of … things I thought it was safer to forget.”

 “Like me.” Isaac felt the snap of the harp string break in two, the ends lashing about inside his rib cage and leaving bloody lacerations.

Max winced but he didn’t argue the point.  Just stared back down at his empty glass.

“Was it so-,” Isaac fumbled for a moment, trying to bring the fiery anger back into his face, but all he could manage was a dull ache. “Was I so bad?”

“Bad?!”  Max looked at him, a bit of incredulity on his face.  “Isaac Fucking O’Connor, seriously, is that what you thought it was about?  No, you weren’t bad.  You are the fucking essence of not-bad.  You were too good.”

“Too good?”

“You were always fixing things.  Running off to find the next person in need of saving.  Cultist trying to call a demon, you were there to stop them.  Kid gets kidnapped by an enraged phantasm that kills once every third night of summer and you storm the haunted house to set him free.  Werewolf in Mayview Park, you go for a midnight jog under the full moon with a revolver and a handful of silver bullets.  A vampire coven, a whole fucking coven, and you go chasing after them like Buffy the fucking vampire slayer with a crossbow and a handful of stakes.  Warlock trying to bring about the end of days, and Isaac is there to stop them.  Isaac has to be the one to save the world.  If someone’s in trouble, you’d throw your life away in an eye-blink to help.”

“I don’t throw my life away,” Isaac argued defensively, “I do what’s right.  And I’m always prepared.”

“Prepared,” Max rolled his eyes, his own temper picking up, “Prepared.”  Max reached across the table, one hand touching Isaac’s right arm, just at the bicep, and Isaac felt a heat stir in him just from how badly he’d missed that touch, “One bullet hole, here.”  Max’s hand flicked to the other side, to land on his shoulder, “Two more, one of them didn’t pass through cleanly.  Doctor had to pull it out.  I couldn’t even come in and find out how you were doing.  Friends have to stay in the waiting room.  That was how well you were prepared for the cultists.”  Max pulled his hands back, aware that his hand had lingered on Isaac’s shoulder longer than necessary, by the blush on both their cheeks.  “The phantasm broke your leg.  Crutches for two weeks, then you were supposed to stay off it for three months.  You lasted two before you were playing werewolf bait. Scars, sixteen of them on your back from the werewolf.  I can tell you where every one is. I used to count them when you slept and thank fucking God not one of them had been deep enough to kill.  The fucking vampire coven, Isaac. The doctors were about to declare you dead before your heart started back up.  They’d never had to use that much blood in a transfusion on a single patient.  It’s still a record for the hospital. Congratulations on that.  After that … I couldn’t take it anymore.  I told myself I could handle it if at least you’d let me go with you.  Help.  But every fucking time I tried to help, you sent me away.  Couldn’t risk the medium.  Too important, too vulnerable to all the nasties.  Didn’t give me a choice.  If I tagged along you’d ditch me.  Or you just wouldn’t even tell me you were doing something until it was done.  Sometimes I didn’t even know if you were going out for a pizza or to save the world.  Every time you went out and made me stay home I wondered, would the next time I see you be you walking through your front door, unconscious in the ER room, or when I dropped my shields and saw you on the Other Fucking Side haunting me?”

“What was I supposed to do?  Just let people die, if I could do something about it?” Isaac leaned forward, trying to make his position clear now that he finally had a chance. “Sit aside while I read the news and know what is doing all the killing and know that the cops are never gonna figure it out?  Just stay home, pick up a nine-to-five and ignore it all?”

“No, Isaac.” Max stood up, leaning forward, balancing his weight on his palms, fingers splayed taut on the table.  “You were supposed to let me help.  Let me in.  This wasn’t just your fight.  It was mine, too.  You want this.  You enjoy it.  Hell, you’ve spent your life learning about this world and trying to understand it.  It’s something we share.  At least it is now.  I admit I didn’t want it, not at first.  I was born with this, with these fucking nightmares that follow me around and wait till I let my guard down so they can rush me.  My first vision, I told you about that remember? My mom.  I was fucking ten and I saw my mom’s ghost.  I knew she was dead before the doctor came out to talk to my dad.  What ten-year-old is supposed to know that kind of shit!  Hell, what adult wants to know that kind of shit?  And then you came into my life, convinced me I wasn’t batshit insane.  That the nightmares are real, but they could be faced.  That it was possible to stand up to them.” Max’s voice softened a second in memory, before he shook his head and anger edged back in, “Then you never let me do it.”

Isaac frowned and Max finished.  “I mean … at first it was okay.  Just knowing it was real, knowing I wasn’t crazy was enough.  And you made me feel safe.  The wards, the charm.  You made your place into a spirit fortress for me.  And then when we….” Max blushed, turning his face down a second. “That made things even better.  I had someone who got me, who understood me, and loved me.  Someone who wasn’t afraid of me and wanted to be with me.  The taint of the other world didn’t bother you.  Didn’t scare you.  Then I realized, nothing scared you.  Nothing.  I kept waiting for the moment you’d give me a chance to become part of it too.  To let me be brave as well.  Then at least if I couldn’t stop worrying, at least I’d be there.  At least I could do something about it.  When I realized that was never going to happen.  That you were never gonna trust me enough, I almost left.  But I couldn’t lose you.” Max’s voice cracked a second; when his eyes quivered along with his voice, Isaac stretched out a hand, grabbing Max’s.  This time Max didn’t pull away, just squeezed back, before he continued.  “So I started hoping you’d get your fill.  You’d get that one scare close enough to make you quit.  If you wouldn’t let me in, maybe you’d stop one day and we could do something else together. You and me.  Be something more than Isaac the hero, and Max the defenseless damsel waiting at home, going out of his mind with worry.  But no matter how much danger you get in, no matter how close it comes, soon as the chance arises again you go rushing off into danger again, off to be the hero, save the day.  It’s like there’s something broken in you, like you can’t be happy unless you’re in danger, like no matter what great thing you do, when people are thanking you for saving your life, you hear another voice going, ‘I’m sorry, Isaac O’Connor, your princess is in another fucking castle, try again tomorrow night.’ I realized you were never going to reach your limit, and that’s when I reached mine.”

“I thought about telling you, but….” Max looked up and he smiled, a smile that said he hurt as much as Isaac did right then, “But this is you.  It’s the you I loved, and even if I could want it, I couldn’t stop you from being you.  Stupid, fearless, justice-loving, Isaac O’Connor, the hero.  But I can’t watch it happen, watch you kill yourself piece by piece, knowing I was never going to be allowed to help, just sit and count the scars, until you got the one you didn’t wake up from.”

Isaac couldn’t think of anything to say.  He couldn’t disagree either.  So he just held on to Max’s hand and tried to drink in the sight.  Etch it one last time into his memory.  He’d told himself if he ever got the chance he’d tell Max just what he’d missed out on.  He’d also told himself if he ever got the chance, he’d convince Max to come back.  But now that the moment had come, it seemed Max had already figured out what he’d missed out on, and Isaac couldn’t ask him to come back knowing he’d been causing this much pain.

“Well....” Ed wandered over, seeing their hands held but not catching the agony behind their expressions.  Isabel wandered behind him, four shots between them.  “I see it was a good idea to go grab these first, have you guys finally talked things out?”

“Ed.” Max’s voice was icy, and the relaxed posture in Ed’s carriage tensed.  “So that’s how he found me? You promised!”

“Well, technically….” Ed looked abashed, catching up to the what he’d missed when he’d gotten upstairs earlier and seen them from a distance talking, not fighting but talking, and become briefly hopeful.  “I promised not to tell him where you were.  Nothing said I couldn’t invite him to where you were if he didn’t know you were there.  And it’s for a good cause, I swear!” Isaac heard the words and winced even as Max rounded on him, disbelief and hurt shining through.

“A good cause.  Of course, why else would he be here?”

Max pulled his hand from Isaac’s, slumping into his seat, listless, the emotion draining out and that tired voice coming back, the one that said he was slowly learning how not to hurt, how not to care.  “Well, go ahead.  How am I supposed to help you try to kill yourself this time?  What is it?  Egyptian mummy gone mad? Horseman of the Apocalypse?  Fallen Angel?”

“A necromancer,” Isaac said, at least having the decency to look sheepish as he replied but unable to turn aside his inner need to prevent harm.  _He made the right decision,_ Isaac realized glumly. _I finally get my chance to speak, and can’t argue with him, because he did the right thing._

“A necro-“ Max swore softly. “Sure, why not.”

Max sat there, silent, staring down at the table, before absently grabbing one of the shot glasses Ed had brought and holding it on the table in front of him.  Across the table Isaac stared, his face a picture of conflicting worries and feelings, before he finally gave up and stared anywhere but at Max.  Ed continued to stand awkwardly, rather than sit, watching with his own discomfort before he began to hum to himself, nervous.  Isabel endured it for about a minute and a half before she couldn’t take it anymore. 

“Well?  Will someone tell me what’s going on? When does the whole séance sta-“

Max’s head jerked up, and frost rimmed the shot glass in his hand before icy patterns traced their way along the table outward away from him.  When he spoke, Max’s voice came out misty, like a jogger on a winter’s day. 

“I’ve relaxed my shields more. They feel me,” he said absently, his eyes not seeing anyone present.  “They’re coming.”  The temperature in the club continued to drop and some of the lights flickered strangely, as people on the upper level began to jump and start suddenly at the shadows in the room that seemed to be growing darker.  The drowning bass seemed to fade and Isaac could hear a hint of voices, just too light to be audible, calling from over his shoulders.

“This is how my shop felt,” Isabel said, her eyes widening as the last shreds of her disbelief were ripped away.

The voices picked up in volume while the music from the speakers crackled and whined.  Isaac strained to hear the voices, but as always, they were indistinguishable.  At least to him.  Max cocked his head, turning to one then a different.  When he spoke it was with a sibilant hiss, his voice echoing upon itself repeatedly.  “Someone’s been talking to you, hurting you.  Commanding you.  Who is it?  Where are they?” 

Again Isaac heard the sibilant whispers grow louder, but no matter how loud, it was just a thousand half syllables, spoken by a thousand voices that refused to come together and yield their meaning.  Except to his medium.  Max nodded, listening again, before turning in one direction, staring at a patch of shadow that seemed to loom taller.

“Who are you?” Max’s voice quivered a moment, and the cold in the room became deeper.  Isaac turned to look at the shadow and realized he was seeing something too; red and blue lights seemed to glow and spin, stilling, narrowing shaping into a serpent’s eyes.

“ _Human,”_ the ghost whispered, “ _I see you…,_ ” it took a second for Isaac to realize that he’d heard the voice and understood it.  Ed and Isabel gasped as well.  With a surge the darkness about the eyes rushed forward toward Max.  Isaac tried to leap into the path, but his legs were tangled under the table. 

Someone else’s reflexes were significantly faster.  Sadly, Isabel’s reflexes said “jump-kick.”  It wasn’t her fault, as, this being her first encounter with an incorporeal spirit, it was perfectly understandable that she might not get that a jump-kick isn’t very effective against a ghost-type.  Not one that can grow intangible at will.  The grudge-turned-poltergeist simply phased into shadow, and her kick carried her over the table and against the wall where she collided with a grunt. 

Ed was slower but significantly more effective.  He tackled Max himself, pushing the entranced medium out of his chair and onto the floor.  The poltergeist flew over their heads, continuing its flight into the middle of the club.  Isaac cursed as he inched around the table to stand between the two and the club center, trying but unable to distinguish the pull of darkness and glowing eyes as it hid amongst the swirling lights and fog machines along the club ceiling.  Then with a tortured groan the metal disco-ball in the center of the club detached, flying toward Isaac in a cluster of mirrored flashing light.  A blur flew over Isaac’s shoulder, and this time Isabel’s kick was far more effective, knocking the sphere askew, a mad swirl of mirrored reflections dazzling everyone on its path into the wall.

Around them the screams rose as the clubs clientele started running and ducking, trying to avoid the flurry of other other items that were flung about, the angry spirit tossing lights and speakers at the living around the upper floor it hated.

Having had enough, Isaac growled under his breath, pulling out a bag of powder and pouring some into his hand. 

“I hope that’s like, mystic ghost eating dust,” Isabel said as she slowly stood, favoring the leg that hadn’t diverted a giant disco ball.

“It’s salt,” Isaac replied, “mixed with some iron fillings.  Pure iron, not the alloyed stuff people use today.”

“Salt and rust,” Isabel said doubtfully.  “That…doesn’t sound as comforting as mystic-ghost-eating-dust.”

“Trust me, even if it’s a poltergeist it still obeys the basic rules of ghosts.  This’ll work.  But just in case it doesn’t….” he pulled a small squirt bottle from his other hand. 

“A squirt bottle. Seriously?  Are we fighting a ghost or trying to stop Mr. Whiskers from coughing hairballs on the carpet?”

“Holy water,” Isaac said absently, his attention still focused on the ceiling, watching for an attack.

“Of course it is….” Isabel sighed.  “Anything else?”

Isaac looked at her before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a stick of gum and popping it into his mouth.

“Is that like, garlic and wolfesbane flavored?” Isabelle offered.

Isaac wrinkled his nose in disgust, “That sounds awful.  No, it’s Dentyne Ice … minty fresh.”

Before Isabel could groan, Ed cut in, “Guys, problem.”

“Talk, Ed,” Isaac said, never taking his eyes off the last place the ghost had been.

“Max isn’t coming out of his trance. He hit his head on the way down, and I don’t know if he can.”

Isaac dropped the holy water and salt-iron in his haste, while behind him Isabel snatched them both up, holding them uncertainly in front of her.  Isaac meanwhile dropped to his hands and knees, crawling under the table to where Ed was staring at Max’s still form.  Frost had started to spread along the floor wherever it touched Max, far thicker and faster than it had on the table before.  Isaac frowned at the shallowness of the mist-covered breaths escaping, and felt a chill, colder than the ice on the floor, spread in his chest. 

“No. Fuck,” Isaac said, before looking about him in haste. “Ed!” he barked, and Ed’s head hit the table as he jumped, “Grab a shot, now.”  Without waiting to see if he listened, Isaac laid his head against Max’s chest and listened for the weakening heartbeat.

Ed scrambled out from under the table and then returned holding a shot glass of liquor.  Isaac snatched it from his hand, dumping the overpriced liquid on the floor, before smashing the glass against a metal table leg.  Ed winced and looked away when Isaac made a quick slash with the jagged glass into his own index finger.  With his non-bleeding hand, Isaac tore at the neckline of Max’s hoody, exposing the pale, bloodless chest beneath.  He drew a symbol in scarlet, quick and crude, on Max’s chest, before adding another on Max’s forehead.  The frost started to withdraw almost instantly from the floor around Max and the room began to warm back up.  Even the whispers grew quieter and distant.  Isaac grabbed Max’s head, pressing his own forehead against Max’s sticky brow and watched the mist on Max’s breath fade.  

“Uh, incoming,” Isabel said as the ghost broke from hiding to charge them, sensing the distraction. She sprayed wildly with the water bottle and flung the salt-iron, but neither action was familiar to her and the poltergeist flickered out of the way easily, coming close and simply disappearing, his shadow thinning to near invisible as he phased through and flew toward the three unarmed opponents under the table.  It almost reached them when Max’s eyes shot open and his hand reached out, his eyes finding the poltergeist instantly.  With effort he slammed his shields into being, shields that, as a medium, specialized in keeping ghosts out.  The poltergeist bounced off something invisible, sparking into visibility as it recoiled.   Behind it, Isabel turned, saw it at last, and squirted madly with the water bottle.  The poltergeist took a blast across its back and hissed wildly, like an enraged serpent, before flying upward into the ceiling.  Max’s eyes tracked upward and then sideways as he followed its invisible escape. 

“The docks,” Max coughed.

“Shut up,” Isaac glared, pulling Max in, letting his body heat dispel the chill that had settled into Max’s flesh. 

“No,” Max coughed again. “The Necromancer’s at the docks.  A warehouse, a big one with a dolphin holding a trident.  The ghosts are terrified of it. They won’t go near it, except the ones he’s coerced or trapped.  They won’t stop talking about all the ones he’s trapped.  He’s ... doing something, collecting them.  That poltergeist, it was one of his, he’ll know you’re coming. If he’s going to do something he knows he has to do it tonight.

Isaac frowned, staring at Max and then at the direction of the exit.  For once his face was a picture of indecision, as the right thing to do and the thing he wanted to do were different.

Max sighed brokenly, pushing Isaac away from him. “Go.  You know you have to.”

Isaac looked at him, his lips pressed tightly as he nodded; he crawled out from under the table with Max, pulling himself to his feet and turning to retrieve his things from Isabel, using the distraction to restore calm to his features.  A hand grabbed his own as he finished pocketing his things, and he turned to stare at Max’s hand, still pale, holding Isaac’s bloody finger up for inspection.

“Another scar,” Max said sadly, before looking up at Isaac with a scared but firm look.  “I could come, you know.  I’m a medium.  He uses ghosts.  I might be able to help.  I’m not afraid.  Not of him.  Just losing you.  You could let me come along, and maybe after...we could talk about … things.”

“Max,” Isaac said, looking at the floor, then back up.  _The right thing,_ Isaac thought, steeling himself. He grabbed Max’s shoulders, pulling him close and kissed as hard as he could.  For a second Max didn’t respond, stunned, and the ache in Isaac’s chest intensified.  But in a rush Max came alive, his hands almost flailing at Isaac’s back, cheek, waist, chest.  It wasn’t sweet, it wasn’t tender.  It was a violent kiss, hungry, aching, desperate.  It was filled with a month’s worth of unsaid fights, and apologies, and ‘I-love-you’s that they’d both been aching to say.  When Isaac pulled back his lips felt swollen, bruised, and he knew he wasn’t alone in the feeling when Max raised a hand to his own lips and rubbed them with disbelief.  Isaac saw the look of hope in Max’s eyes and found himself unable to swallow the lump forming in his throat. 

“You were right, Max.”

Confusion slipped into Max’s eyes, but something in Isaac’s tone, in his experience with the scrappy red-headed supernatural hunter, told him what was coming, and dawning pain flooded his eyes.

“You were right and wrong, Max,” Isaac started, “You were right to leave me.  But you were wrong when you said there’s nothing I’m afraid of.  I can’t lose you.  Not like this.  I’d rather…” he shuddered a second before continuing, “rather you be as far away from me as possible than know I’d put you in danger.  Under the table … I didn’t care if the ghost was going to attack us or not.  I couldn’t focus on anything but your safety.  I don’t know how you dealt with that feeling all this time, but just a moment of it was too much for me.  I can’t … I can’t bring you along. And it’s not because I don’t think you’re brave … it’s because I can’t do what’s right if I know you’re in danger.  I need to know you’re safe.”

Max stepped back, and Isaac was expecting rejection.  He was expecting the mask of worn acceptance and bitterness to drift across Max’s face.  He wasn’t expecting a fist to the gut.  It wasn’t hard, but it was hard enough, and Isaac slumped forward, chin landing on Max’s shoulder as Max caught him, whispering angrily into his ear.

“And that’s where you had a half dozen stitches from fighting the warlock, stitches you got putting yourself in danger while I had to sit back and let you do the right thing,” Max said bitterly.

Isaac coughed a moment as he regained his breath, and Max lowered Isaac to a seat at the table, kneeling on one knee to look into the redhead’s eyes while he rubbed the spot he’d hit soothingly, genuinely regretting the necessity.  _Why does Isaac always want to do things the hard way?_  

Max grabbed Isaac’s face with both hands, forcing the red-head to meet his gaze.  “You don’t seem to understand the situation, Isaac.  The choice isn’t lose me or let me come along.  I’m done waiting for you to kill yourself.  And I tried leaving you behind.”  The shadows under Max’s eyes spoke volumes, as did the tiredness in his voice. “That didn’t work either.  It didn’t matter that I wasn’t around you anymore, I still knew you were off being … you.  Getting into danger.  I’m a medium, so every night I wake up in a sweat and look, look to see if your ghost is among the crowd out there.  So no,” Max finished tiredly.  “That didn’t work either.”

“It was wrong to make the choice for you and just leave without a word.” Max continued looking apologetic, but then he glared at Isaac again, “And obviously it was wrong to let you make the choice for me.” The hand rubbing Isaac’s stomach applied light pressure for a second, nothing painful, just illuminating what choice Max meant.   

The pressure lifted and Max rested his head against Isaac’s, sighing and finishing. “So the new deal is: I don’t get to stop you.  And you don’t get to stop me.  I’m going to be out there fighting these things, too.  ’Cause if I have to watch you consume yourself in in this…” one hand waved at the damaged table and disco ball smashed behind them, “self-destructive crusade of yours, the only way I’m going to be able to sleep at night, the only way I’m going to live, is if I’m out there doing something about it.  I’d rather it be out there with you, knowing you have my back,” Max’s voice warmed, “as a team.  But I’ll settle for throwing myself into danger at every chance I get, on the off chance that at least, if a few of those things are fighting me, they aren’t fighting you.”

Isaac grabbed Max’s hands, his face filled with worry, “Max, you can’t be serious. You’ve never trained for any of this.  You’ve barely started learning how to control the whole medium thing. If you go out there on your own you’ll get yourself killed.”

“Yeah,” Max said, “probably.  It’d probably be a whole lot safer if I had someone experienced to show me the ropes, watch my back.  A partner.” Isaac grabbed Max’s hands and Max squeezed tightly.  Isaac tried to wrestle with the uncertainty, and Max must have seen it, because though he squeezed back comfortingly, his voice was still serious.

“Isaac, this is my choice. I have a right to make it.  Just like you have a right to keep choosing to throw yourself into danger.  Constantly.  And you can’t really stop me.  I’m a medium.  Who’s going to find out about the monsters and other things creeping out and going bump in the night faster?  You, or an army of gossiping ghosts who are desperate to have someone to talk to?” 

Ed chimed in, a smile on his face. “My money’s on the ghosts.” Isaac glared at him and Ed just grinned, shrugging his shoulders.

Max gave an exasperated but fond glance of his own towards the floral-shirt wearing fashion-disaster before turning back to Isaac and biting his lip.  “So ... what’s it gonna be?”

Isaac stood up, his hands still holding Max’s tightly.  His face wasn’t happy, but Max wasn’t expecting that.  His voice was steady though, when he said, “I’d say you can come along.” Max glared and Isaac winced.  Quickly he corrected himself, “…I mean.” He visibly steeled himself to say the next words. “We can go do this together.  Partner.”

Max slumped forward, leaning against Isaac, while his knees shook slightly in relief. 

Ed coughed before reaching into his pocket and passing something to Max.  “I guess you’ll want this back then?”

Isaac stared at the silver charm bracelet, which Max gratefully grabbed.  Max fiddled with it a moment, trying to reattach it with one hand and failing.

“I thought you said you threw it out,” Isaac mumbled awkwardly as he reached over to take it from Max, looping it around one of Max’s wrist with a shake in his hand as he worked the catch.

“I tried to,” Max replied sheepishly.  “Can you really do this, let me be a part of everything, instead of just part of your half of you life?”

The catch snapped into place, and Isaac looked up into Max’s eyes and gathered his courage as tightly as he could, but he couldn’t form words yet.  So he wrapped one arm around Max’s waist, and brought the other to Max’s chin, closing his eyes and leaning into a much softer, much more fearful and trembling kiss. 

“Do I have a choice?” he finally said when they parted, a half-hearted smile letting him know the words weren’t meant bitterly or to hurt.

“Not really,” Max said with a nervous smile in return.

“So,” Isabel said with a cough, breaking the moment.  "Can we go kick some ghost butt now or what?  Wait, do ghosts even have butts?” 

Ed grinned, slinging an arm around Isabel as he led the way, giving the two guys a moment of privacy as they resumed kissing.  “Let me give you a primer in ghost anatomy, while they finish discussing the terms of their new deal.”

Behind him Max had the decency to blush as Isaac glared before laughing at himself and leaning back in for another kiss. 


	2. Chapter 2 - A Farewell to Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a brief flash-back. There had been some interest in understanding quite how Max and Isaac had gotten to this point, so I figured, this brief chapter might illuminate the situation. Enjoy

_Flashback: 1 Month_

 

Tired. Max was so tired. 

Emotionally drained. 

Mentally exhausted. 

Physically…Physically tired.  His muscles ached.  Arms, legs, neck, back, every sinew was wrung out, a pile of rags, twisted dry of everything they could hold.   Endorphins still swam lazily through his veins, the most energetic thing in his body, providing him with the after-glow buzz that kept the soreness that he should be feeling at bay. 

 _I can’t believe we did…that…like that anyway, it’s been so long since…and it was just like we used to.  Just so…_ A memory unbidden, sharp teeth, grasping hands, probing lips.  Stars, brief and brilliant, when head and headboard collided.  A muffled, “oh shit, ‘m sorry” from Isaac, concern temporarily pushing need and want out of his voice.  A laugh, Max couldn’t believe it was his own, but it was.  Warm, spontaneous, the first genuine laugh in a month.  Then a frantic return to the matters at hand.  A build-up of energy, intensity. A Frenetic haste, climbing, spiraling upward.  A crescendo of moans, names, and frantic, “don’t stops,” and “almost there.”  Then that last soaring peak, before… a fade, a drain, no an utter collapse.  The wave of pleasure blowing through his veins and taking everything with it, leaving exhaustion in its wake.  It was harder on Isaac, still recovering from the hospital, from his ordeal.  Like a puppet with cut strings, he’d all but collapsed on top of Max.  There’d been a few muffled words.  Maybe happy ones?  Maybe tired ones?  Max wasn’t sure what words Isaac had used.  They were spoken into his shoulder, muffled by sweat-damped skin, and Isaac eyes had slid shut only shortly after speaking them.  Max could have woken Isaac and asked for him to repeat himself.  Max could have tried to figure it out from the context and sounds he had heard  But he was inside his own head, having his own words…with himself.  _Idiot.  Fucking-Moron. Stupid, stupid, stupid…Augh...It wasn’t supposed to be like that, not this time._   He hadn’t meant for it to happen, at least not like that.  Not tonight.  It was supposed to be a goodbye, even if one only one of them knew it as such.  A goodbye.

He’d made his mind up the three nights before, when Isaac had stormed out of the apartment, a crossbow in one hand, a pack of stakes on his back, and a grin for Max over one shoulder that said,  _Don’t worry about me, Babe.  I got this._ And he had.  Vampire Coven – Zero, Isaac – One.  The coven hadn’t killed him, though not for lack of trying.  The blood-loss though.  It almost did the job. 

Max wasn’t surprised when Ed rang him up, telling him to meet at Mayview hospital.  He hadn’t had to ask for directions at the hospital.  The ER Night staff knew him by sight, waving him past their station with a quick, “Room 203 Mr. Puckett.”   For two days he nursed his resolve, reminded himself that the decision he’d made was the right one.  The only one that would keep him from enduring nights like this for the rest of his life.  Or as much of a life as fate would grant him before he had to endure an even worse phone call, before his dissatisfaction and their fights distracted Isaac at a crucial moment.  Or before Isaac took on a cause he couldn’t win.  Max reassured himself he was doing the right thing, if not for Isaac then for his own fragile state of mind.  Two days and two nights of every spare minute at the hospital.  Sitting in room 203 listening to a heart monitor serve as a slow metronome, pacing a symphony of worry and dread that was slowly being consumed in a second song of resentment and resignation.  His only delay, the only thing holding him back was he need to know Isaac was safe, one last time.  And Isaac had given him that on the second night, opening his eyes tiredly, and rolling his head to the side.  A weak-yet-triumphant grin at seeing Max at the bedside was followed by a painfully slow thumbs up.  They were the only communication Isaac could manage.  Max had smiled back, relief temporarily strong enough to override even the grim decision he’d reached.  Then, once Isaac had fallen back into sleep, it all came crashing back in.  Max had slipped out of the room, realizing with sick relief, his last vigil was done.  On the way to the parking lot, he’d ducked his head, using his hat to obscure his face, to avoid a penetrating and far too observant gaze from Ed sitting in the waiting room.  Then he hopped on his crappy motor-bike, as care-worn and falling-apart as he himself felt as of late.  He headed home.  Isaac’s home, not his, not anymore, maybe not even before. 

The act of leaving was ridiculously easy to start.  Even six months after moving in, his presence could fit into one bag, clothing, a few odds and ends from the bathroom, and some small mementos.  Six months and he’d never left a lasting impression on the place.  Or on Isaac.  Max was a little splash of color, a minor variance on an overriding black-and-white theme.  He was one suitcase of filler in an apartment, an entire life, built around Isaac and his obsession with good-and-evil.  A few drawers of clothes and some toiletries, measured against the shelves of occult books, random home-made weapons, scary movie DVDs, zombie fighting video games, and monster sighting clippings on the wall from the trashiest of conspiracy theorist tabloids.  An entire apartment that spoke volumes about Isaac and had ever so briefly, spared only a footnote for Max. 

He was examining the room, committing it to memory as it was now, devoid of his presence.  Letting the impression slowly paint over the memories of pizza together on the couch, letting it wipe away the memory of falling asleep under a shared blanket in the middle of a Midnight Madness(complete with directors cuts) movie marathon.   A buzz in his pocket interrupted the reverie, and he saw the text from Ed.  Isaac had recovered enough to leave.  Recovered by Isaac’s standards anyway.  He was in the process of stubborning himself, with Isaac stubborn was a verb, past a crowd of doctoral objection and good sense.  He was headed home.  _Damn Ed and his timing_ , he’d probably ‘psychicked’ out Max’s intentions.  Or whatever you called what Ed did, drawn out a picture in his notebook and seen Max standing by the door with his bag packed.  Or he’d just been watching them more closely, more insightfully than Isaac was capable of, and figured it all out on his own.  Whatever the motivation he’d sent the one thing that would grind Max’s resolution to dust.  The knowledge that Isaac was on his way, stoically rushing home still injured, still tired.  Probably rushing home out of some obstinate desire or worry born of waking again to Max missing from the hospital room.  Pushing himself past any reasonable standard of self-preservation, to rush home and be on hand to protect Max or make sure _he_ was ok.  Max couldn’t leave, not yet, not knowing that.  He was angry.  He was sad. He was tired. So tired.  But he couldn’t just leave, couldn’t let Isaac come home from the hospital to an apartment that bore no stamp, was wiped so clean of Max after all these months.  If for no other reason than he wanted to leave one last mark, one impression, even if it was one locked only in their memories.

So he’d pushed his bag behind the couch and sat down.  Waiting, steeling himself.  He thought about telling Isaac why he was leaving, that would certainly leave a mark, one last fight, one with him shouting and raging, and Isaac just looking guilty, not angry.  Just guilty and accepting.  Max could do it, but then again he couldn’t.  If it was as easy as talking to Isaac, he’d have done it months ago.  An earnest talk, if it would have done any good, would have been a hundred times preferable to the feelings of frustration and resentment.  But Isaac was Isaac.  Stubborn.  He wouldn’t give up chasing monsters and he wouldn’t let Max help.  And Max knew the answer to both of those questions, so…what was the point of fighting over them?  Why make Isaac feel bad about doing the right thing, knowing Isaac would still do it anyway.  Why take from him what joy he got from being a hero, by making him see it as a flaw, as a point of contention between them?  Compared to that, a cowardly retreat was so much easier.  Let Isaac come up with his own reasons for it.  Blame Max if he could.  Or if he had to blame himself, at least not blame the one thing that made him happier than Max could.  Made him who he was.

And if he couldn’t talk to Isaac, there was only one other thing he wanted.  One other way to leave a lasting impression, if not a bitter memory, a warm one.  Something to make up for the ease with which he’d erased himself from Isaac’s home.  One last reminder that he’d been there.  He’d been part of Isaac’s life; however, insubstantial a part it might seem come the morning.

And Isaac had trailed in to the apartment in the wake of that decision.  He’d limped in, his figure hunched, bracing for a fight.  His face sheepish, nervous.  He walked in worried, worried that Max was upset, that, undoubtedly they were in for another of those ‘mysterious’ and ‘random’ fights that had dominated their interactions lately.  Fights they always seemed to have after he risked his neck.  How Isaac hadn’t put two and two together was surprising to Max, but somehow, he equated Max’s anger, Max’s moods, with some other failing of his.  Some imagined inability to communicate or express his affections properly, that was leaving Max feeling unfulfilled.  After all it couldn’t be his pursuit of justice, no one could object to doing the right thing.  Normally, Isaac’s self-depreciating assumption that he was failing Max in some way other than his suicidal selflessness, just irritated Max further.  Fueled their fights.  But tonight, Max had suppressed it, looking at Isaac and reminding himself, that this might be his last chance to see that face.  It was all the motivation he’d needed.  He wanted one last night, a requiem for what they’d been.  A sweet remembrance, something to make his own cold nights ahead, warmer in reflection.

It had started right, slow kisses, soft touches, sweet whispers.  He’d been dedicated to a gentle, painstakingly drawn out evening, taking care to devote every moment to memory.  Then the look on Isaac’s face had broken him.  Hope, relief, satisfaction, all poured itself out a pair of almost glowing blue eyes and a goofy, happy smile.  Max could see it in Isaac, a belief that finally, after a month where everything he’d done had failed Max somehow, finally they were back to good.  The confidence that always drew him to Isaac was coalescing into an almost smug contentment in the reckless determined-to-kill-himself-hero.  He’d saved the city, killed the vampires, survived another near-death experience, and Max was acting like, _his Max_ again.  Things were finally good, and Isaac O’connor, near dead or not, couldn’t be happier.  The smile had hurt.  It had cut.  It had crept into Max’s mind and whispered, “ _liar.”_ And Max could only think of one way to stop it.  Slow turned to Fast.  Sweet turned to Insistent.  Soft to Hard.  And tired, worn out, near-dead Isaac, had responded with all the determination and enthusiasm he could manage, all the tireless almost unreal stamina that he devoted to his crusade against evil.  And when it wasn’t enough, when the throbbing, aching, guilt started to drown out the feeling still, threatening to poison his last night with Isaac, Max had no choice again.  Fast turned to Frantic.  Insistent turned to Desperate.  Hard to Ragged.  He’d pushed them both past anything reasonably close to making love into something more animal.  Something that could override his feelings, with the natural imperative, the inevitable conclusion.

 _And now I’m here, tired, empty, drained.  Too exhausted to move.  Trapped still._   Max sighed.  It should have been a heavy sigh, but he didn’t even have the energy for that.  Between his shoulder blades, he felt the stubble of Isaac’s jaw, scratchy from two days of unshaven growth at the hospital.  Along his neck, Isaac’s breathing pulsed, hot and slow.  One of Isaac’s arms, lay across his own hip, trailing along his stomach, shifting every now and then between limp contentment and reflexive needy tightening, pulling him back against Isaac, drawing a line of warm fire where skin met skin up and down Max’s back.  It was warm, it was safe.  It was everything he remembered from when they’d first changed from friends to…this.  Everything that made leaving so hard. And he was tired.  So tired.

Still a part of him remembered his resolve.  Remembered what would come after the after-glow.  What was coming tomorrow night or the next or the one after that.  But only a small part.  The rest was just so happy.  So blindly willing to lay here, dead to the worries and cares.  _Dead to the world._ The solution chased across his mind.  He needed to leave, he needed to run, and he needed to escape the warmth, the security, and there was one place where there was no warmth, no security, and no contentment.  Max, braced himself, dropping his shields, the barriers that kept the ghosts at bay.  The shiver he felt was not from the normal unearthly cold that accompanied his use of Medium power.  Not here.  Not at the heart of everything Isaac had built to keep him safe.  Between the wards and the charm around his wrist, even with his shields thrown wide, the other side of the Veil was a distant echo, a memory of cold.  There was no fogging in the air, no rime, no frost.  There was a coldness, but even if it could not touch him unbidden.  Not here, not yet.  But it could remind him.  Remind him of a place where heartless was not just a phrase, but a condition of existence.  Where numbness was not bone-deep, but soul-deep.  A place where regret was a stain, a blot that tinged everything, and could serve as an ungentle, unflinching reminder of the fate that waited him along this path, of staying by Isaac.  Voices, meaningless echoes to other, but perfectly clear to him, began their tired old litanies.  Whispers of woe and remorse, misgivings and shames.  Happy spirits didn’t linger.  Not long.  So the voices that dominated, that hung around, that followed Max on the other side, were not as a rule cheerful, bright things.  It was the others, those whose baggage kept them from crossing that clustered and trailed him.  Sad, listless, strays who couldn’t quite severe their chains to the living world.  And they reminded Max of what could be.  Would be.  If he kept hating Isaac for not letting him be enough.  Or if he swallowed that resentment but kept waiting anyway.  Waiting for the day Isaac didn’t come home. 

The last of the happy glow drained from Max, the last of the fear and guilt, followed after.  He borrowed from the other side, invited the numbness in, and pushed himself out.  He’d never done that before, but even through the wards and the charm, an invitation from a Medium as strong as Max was enough.  He fed the souls a steady stream of his own fears and sorrows.  It might be the same thing they sang of but it was a fresher, newer line to their weary words.  Richer and more vibrant notes to play than their tired old tune.  And as long as he kept the shields open, kept feeding them, cold strength slipped into his veins to replace what contentment had robbed him of.  Numb resolve gave him the strength to move.

One hand, slipped down to meet Isaac’s own palm, flat across Max’s waist.  Isaac’s fingers tried to twine, to sleepily mesh with his, but Max stiffly pushed them away, slipping free, standing.  With the stealth of the sepulcher, the quietude of the grave, he slipped noiselessly free.

“Mxxxxxx?” A tired voice, slipped out of Isaac, not aware, not conscious, just reflexive.  His arm quested across the empty bed seeking.  Warmth in Max stole the strength, his limbs tired again in the wake of new feelings, concerns that belonged to the the living.  He quickly fed regret to the other side, pushing every ounce of the burgeoning emotion across the Veil, asking for more strength, offering himself in ironic trade for more.  More nothingness.  More emptiness.  With one dispassionate hand, he moved his pillow into Isaac’s reach.  The arm snaked around the pillow pulling it close.  Isaac breathed deep, the scent of Max lingering on the pillow, and the restlessness faded back to a tired smile.  A pang of warmth, more regret made more poignant by a splash of affection flowed towards the Veil from Max, where it was drunk eagerly by ghosts long denied such a lively, bitter vintage

Max made it outside the bedroom, dressing in a distracted, automatic state.  He pulled the suitcase from behind the couch and moved in a steady, metered step to the door.  Another wave of tiredness struck when the cold faded as he gazed back at the room once last time.  Quickly he found loneliness inside blossoming, and thrust it towards the ghosts.  Cold again.  Strong again.  Outside the apartment it got easier.  Isaac’s wards ended at the door.  The charm was still strong, a warm anchor of fire around his wrist, but without the wards, the other side, surged closer restlessly.  Now the normal signs of the other side manifested.  Real frost leapt from his footsteps and the hand that ran along the staircase bannister as he shambled down to the main floor, left a trail of icy-fingerprints.  Mist fogged his breath, and each exhalation took more of the warmth away, drawing all of it from him but the pinprick around his wrist.  He looked at that wrist, at himself at last, when his hand clutched the doorknob that lead to the street.  Silver flashed against corpse-pale skin, skin that seemed to almost steam in the mildly warm air, as mist trailed from a pallid, bloodless hand.  For a second he was sick at how close to the other side he was, and in that revulsion he found the strength to pull back.  To slam his shields back into place.  Warmth returned, along with the tiredness.  But this far from Isaac.  This far along his new path, this late into his decision, momentum had its own strength.  He made it outside, finding his motor-bike, and let the reliable, if old and weary engine, do what his legs couldn’t.  Take him away.  He wasn’t sure about where, yet, but it didn’t matter.  Any direction was away.  He’d let his momentum carry him.  An irritated buzz in his pocket reminded him of the real world.  He didn’t bother checking.  Isaac was asleep, and only one person would have the awful presence…or perhaps prescience of mind to be texting him now.  Still the distraction served a purpose, it was a reminder that leaving wasn’t just as easy as walking away.  Not with Isaac and he people he, no they, both knew.  His aimless drive gained purpose, a destination.

Ten minutes later he raised his hand to knock on a door, distinct from its neat neighbors by the array of wind-chimes, trashy knick-knacks, garden gnomes, and house-plants gone wild.  Before his hand even drew close to the lime green door, so off-putting compared to its beige and brown neighbors along the street, Ed opened it, clearly expecting him.  His hands were smudged with ink, his face looked tired and something, sad maybe, disappointed perhaps.  The only thing Max was sure of was that Ed’s face showed no surprise.

“I,” Max started in a pained fashion his mind trying to remember how words worked for the living.  Then his eyes tracked down to what Ed was wearing.  Zebra-stripe pajama pants had no business on a grown man, let alone paired with a plaid-flannel shirt.  _He seriously has some kind of hard-core vendetta against good taste._ It was a brief thought, scandalous for its levity in the face of all the gravity of his night, and yet it was what he needed.  It broke the block of silence that had descended on him from the grave, with a soft, _alive_ sensation of warmth, of humor.  Max finished “I need a favor Ed.”  A warmth pulsed at his wrist, a tingle that merged with the pinpricks of heat coming back into his limbs.  “No make that two.”

Ed sighed, not even needing to be told what was going on.  There were some benefits to psychic friends, not the least of which was avoiding painful drawn out explanations.  He simply met Max’s gaze levelly, as if to silently ask, _are you sure this is what you want?_

Max nodded, to the unspoken question.  Glad that he didn’t have to vocalize anything on that point and face an argument with Ed.  “First, can you not tell him where I am, don’t use your…you-know” Max gestured at Ed’s forehead vaguely, “to help him find me?”

Ed nodded, “I promise not to _tell_ him where you are.”  Max, caught something in Ed’s tone, and his expression sharpened suspiciously.  Before he could comment; however, Ed winced, then quickly cut him off with a rapid fire statement.  “But he’s going to find you.  Or you’re going to find him.  It’s going to happen.”

“Are you just saying that, or…are you…seeing that.” Max asked, distracted from his suspicions, as dread and hope both twisted their way in.  Almost reflexively he repeated his trick from Isaac’s apartment, opening his shields just slightly to feed both emotions into the eagerly hungry ghosts in the Void.

Ed blinked at that, sensing some of what Max was doing, and clear distaste warred with pity on his face as he leaned away.  Under his breath he muttered, “Idiots.  Surrounded by idiots.”  Then more loudly, he answered Max, forcing a grin on his face, “Don’t need to see that.  I just need to know you two.  You aren’t going to make it out of the city, not for long.  He isn’t going to make it a month tops before he goes crazy and finds a way to hunt you down.  If for no other reason than to make sure a doomsday cult didn’t get its hands on you.” 

Max thought he should care.  He remembered that he always took Ed’s advice and opinions very seriously.  But at that moment all he could feel was the chill, the cold, the numb, spreading everywhere.  Except for that annoying warmth on his arm, that pinprick of silver fighting back.  He reached for the latch of the charm, stiff fingers awkwardly slipping the charm free.  He held it out toward Ed, whose hand was already extended palm open, probably had been before Max even reached for the charm.  _Psychics_ , the tired thought slipped in, a brief note of irritation beating back the dead chill slipping through his thoughts. 

“Favor two, take care of this, I can’t…he might track it.  And I don’t want it…reminding me of…just get rid of it for me.” Max’s voice was hollow, as he bolstered himself more with the touch of the realm of the dead.

Max didn’t wait for a response, he’d already turned, was walking back to his motor bike with a stiff, awkward stride, little wisps of mist slipping from his mouth, little tendrils of frost following his footsteps.

Ed winced, already anticipating the frantic worried calls he’d be getting in the morning from Isaac, and the evasions he’d have to deal with over the next few weeks.  Still he pocketed the charm, already designing a ward in his mind that would conceal the charm from Isaac’s searches.  Not quite what Max had asked, but really Max should be more careful in his requests if it meant so much to him.  “I’ll take care of it.”  Ed promised quietly.


End file.
